As the party neared the house of the magistrate, a feeling of utter despair crept over Albert’s heart, and he was conscious but of one thought; that was, that he would be glad when he was dead, for then all his miseries would be over, and he should perhaps in some happier state, see Ada, who, with an awful shudder, he thought must have been murdered long since by Jacob Gray.
CHAPTER CVII.
The Interview and the Exculpation.—Sir Francis Hartleton’s Caution.
Who in this world can safely calculate his true position, or say what circumstance is fraught with woe and what with happiness, when we are more frequently upon the point of obtaining our most glorious and delightful aspirations, while we fancy the cloud of adversity is thickening around us than when, to our limited perceptions, we are emerging into the sweet sunshine of felicity. Situated as Albert Seyton now was, even hope was a stranger to his heart—he could see not one ray of sunlight amid the dreary gloom by which he was immured—all was blank despair. Like some wave-tossed mariner, who, after struggling with the remorseless seas for a long dreary night, looks with lack-lustre eye along the world of waters as the first streak of the morning light enables him to do so, and sees no hope—no distant land—no sail, and feels that to struggle longer is but to protract death which is certain, Albert gave way to the circumstances by which he was surrounded, and as he entered the magistrate’s house, the expression of deep dejection on his countenance was remarked with significant whispers and glances by the officers, who looked upon it as a sign of conscious guilt, and entertained no more doubt of the fate of their prisoner, than they did of their own existence, so confident were they that he was, in truth, the murderer.
Oh, could he have guessed at that moment, that he was under the same roof with his Ada—could he have dreamt that he was breathing the same air which she breathed—what bursts of glorious sunshine through the murkiest sky that ever frowned upon the world, could, in its contrast, have equalled the feelings that would have possessed his breast, in lieu of the twin hags grief and despair, which now possessed it wholly.
And Ada—the beautiful and good—the pure of heart—the noble—the gifted Ada—she was sleeping, all unconscious of the events of that fearful night; little imagined she, that her great enemy had died so awfully, or that he who loved her lived in such great jeopardy.
The morning was rapidly approaching now, and Albert was taken into a room facing the east, in the residence of Sir Francis, and closely guarded, until the magistrate should make his appearance, which, in a few moments he did, having been awakened with the news that a barbarous murder was committed and the criminal was in his house.
Albert stood facing the window, and it was partly the dull reflection of the early morning light, and partly the death-like paleness of his face, from the state of mind he was in, which made him look more like a corpse than a living man, and for a moment prevented Sir Francis from recognising him.
Albert flinched not from the magistrate’s earnest gaze, but looking steadily at him, he said,—
“Sir Francis Hartleton, I am brought here accused of murder—I am innocent, but I cannot say more—do with me what you will, for I am tired of life.”